Skimpy Outfits, an Ugly Hat and a Baseball Match
by Em Mindelan
Summary: SD-1 May Challenge Entry - Flowers, a baseball match and a quote from a famous movie. "And what are you doing at a baseball game, wearing practically nothing, and roasting during a heatwave?...Sloane sent you on a mission."


**Skimpy Outfits, an Ugly Hat and a Baseball Match**

Well, this is one fic that just had to be let out.  
  
My humour muse decided to have Syd start thinking about Dixon in a cocktail dress *shudders* while I was trying to write the last piece of "Evolution", my quite angsty AU S/V piece...and she wouldn't shut up until I decided to give her her own fic to be funny in.  
  
And this is the result. It's also an entry into the SD-1 May Challenge.   
  
The Challenge requirements were -   
1. Flowers   
2. Baseball   
3. A famous line from a movie. (must identify movie and line at bottom of story)  
  
Now...some more Author's Notes -  
  
SUMMARY - The title's pretty self explanationary. Skimpy Outfits, an Ugly Hat, and a Baseball Match.   
SHIP - S/V, of course.  
SETTING - AU after "The Counteragent" - Syd went to get herself a new handler after Alice McPlot Device showed up. Now, Syd's on a mission, and Vaughn and Weiss are at a baseball match.  
RATING - Probably PG  
DISCLAIMER - I don't own the characters! Bad Robot Productions, ABC Television, JJ Abrams etc...they're the ones who own them.   
  
And now, for the story...  
  
**Skimpy Outfits, an Ugly Hat and a Baseball Match****  
So, I'm sitting at a baseball match.   
  
And I'm wondering why on earth I'm always the one in the skimpy costumes. I mean, you never see Dixon in a cocktail dress, do you?   
  
I shudder. Okay, maybe there's a reason why I wear the cocktail dresses in this partnership. [_It's less conspicuous, for one thing…_]   
  
I'd still like to know why he's sitting in some air-conditioned van, all nice and comfortable, while I'm out here, wearing a thing during a heat wave. Why does he get all the cushy jobs?  
  
When they recruited me into the CIA, they never mentioned the outfits. I mean, how drunk must the person in charge of my outfits been when they dreamed up the blue thing that I had to be practically poured into? And what's with the endless stream of cocktail dresses, always designed to be as short and as revealing as possible?   
  
You wonder who the heck it is that designs your outfits down in the bowels of SD-6, and what sort of sick pleasure they get out of seeing you in those sorts of clothes.  
  
Although from some of the looks you get from the men you encounter while in said clothes, you suspect it might not be sick pleasure per se. Pleasure, yes. Possibly sick. But not definitely.  
  
This time round it was a…thing. You were wearing a thing. You really didn't know how to describe it, except as a thing. A thing that you weren't even sure could be classified as a piece of clothing. It's a piece of fabric. An extremely small piece of fabric, covering everything that needs to be covered to make sure that you're not arrested for breaking laws governing public decency [we may be in LA, but we still have some standards].  
  
And what are you doing at a baseball game, wearing practically nothing, and roasting during a heatwave?   
  
Well, Sloane sent you on a mission.   
  
A mission to do what, I hear you ask? Well, it's a mission…to obtain some top-secret information.  
  
From who, I hear you ask? Well…the man down there in the front row. The one with the hat. The ugly hat. Your target for this mission is the Man With The Ugly Hat. And yes, you heard me correctly. The Man With The Ugly Hat. That's his name. Really. Not even the CIA knows his real name. For all we know, that might be the name he was born with.   
  
Regardless of his name, apparently he has some information we need, on Rambaldi, or something, or someone…to be perfectly honest, I…um, wasn't really paying attention during the briefing. Sark was making funny faces at me, and I was trying to figure out someway of causing him pain without Sloane finding out I was hurting his pretty boy.  
  
I still haven't thought of anything yet, so if you know of any [preferably temporary, and preferably not-too-visible and yet still painful] torture techniques, please do let me know.  
  
So, I'm sitting here, trying to look like I like baseball [I've never really actually seen the point of the game], in a piece of fabric that I can only call a thing, and it's the hottest day LA has seen in 100 years, and who comes and sits right behind me?  
  
"Syd? Syd, what are you doing here? I thought you told me that you were going to Vegas this weekend!"  
  
Great. As if my day could get any better.  
  
"Hello, Weiss. It's so nice to see you too," you say sarcastically, pausing and nodding at his companion. "Vaughn."  
  
You see, Vaughn [who I've got a whole looks-of-completely-requited-lust thing going with, as well as this whole love-of-my-life gig] and I aren't getting along so well right now.  
  
Why, you may ask?  
  
Well, there's sort of the fact that he's going out with this blonde "I'm Alice, his girlfriend" chick while returning my completely-requited-lustful-looks. And there's the fact that I was perfectly willing to get my boss killed in order to save his life, and he hadn't even told me that he was seeing his girlfriend again.   
  
So I'm kinda not talking to him. Yes, I know it's kind of childish, but it's actually working quite nicely. He's frustrated, and making more and more forehead wrinkles everyday, plus Weiss, my new handler is teaching me a lot of yo-yo tricks. All in all, I think it's a pretty good arrangement.   
  
"What are you two doing here?" I mutter exasperatedly.  
  
"I got given tickets, Sydney! I mean, these are good tickets."  
  
"Yeah, if you like baseball…" mutters Vaughn.  
  
I stifle a giggle. So he doesn't like baseball either? This has definite potential.  
  
Weiss replies angrily, "Hey, it's not my fault my mother doesn't know the difference between hockey and baseball!"   
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, really!"  
  
I roll my eyes, and mutter under my breath, "Men."  
  
"HEY!"   
  
Okay. Maybe that wasn't quite as under-my-breath as I would have liked…  
  
"Well, what do you expect? You show up on one of my missions, and you start having an argument about whose fault it is that Eric's mother doesn't know the difference between hockey and baseball? Good grief. This is a serious…mission...quest… thing."  
  
They look at each other and I can tell that they're fighting the urge to laugh. I resist the urge to smack both of them firmly.  
  
"Alright, Syd, then what are you doing here? You told me you were going to Vegas for the weekend? And what on earth are you wearing?"  
  
At Weiss's mention of your clothes, you can feel Vaughn's eyes giving you a rather close lookover.  
  
You reach over, and lift his head up to eyelevel.   
  
"Hey, bucko. My eyes are _here_."  
  
Vaughn actually turns red at this. I suppress the urge to laugh, and just turn back to Weiss.  
  
"One. Sloane decided that he wanted me to go on a mission. Two, _don't ask about the outfit_."  
  
They're both a little taken aback by your ferocity when questioned about the clothing…thing.  
  
Weiss mutters under his breath, "Okay, okay, you don't have to be so touchy…"  
  
Vaughn just asks, "So, what's your mission?"  
  
"Well, I sort of have to pick the pocket of that dude with the hat down there."  
  
"And you're wearing that sort of an outfit why?"  
  
I glare at him.   
  
"Right, right, moving on."  
  
"Wow. That really is an ugly hat your target's wearing," interjects Weiss.  
  
"That's why they call him the Man With The Ugly Hat," I reply, wondering why I had to work with these two buffoons out of all the CIA agents in the world. Surely there had to be some normal guys who work at the CIA? Or maybe even some women? Surely fellow members of the sisterhood would understand my plight…  
  
"The WHAT?" They both reply simultaneously.  
  
"The Man With The Ugly Hat." You repeat as if talking to a 5 year old.  
  
"Syd, um, why do they call him that?"  
  
"I have no idea! Why don't you go ask him yourself?"  
  
At this, Vaughn begins to get up from his seat.   
  
I roll my eyes and help Weiss pull him back to his seat.  
  
"I just know, before this is over, I'm gonna need a whole lot of serious therapy. Look at my eye twitching," I mutter.  
  
"What was that, sorry Syd?"   
  
"Nothing!" _God bless Donkey._  
  
"Okay, okay!" grumbles Weiss.  
  
Vaughn, his forehead wrinkles prominent, points out ever so helpfully, "Syd, if you're here, and we're here, and your target is down there, what are we doing here?"   
  
That stops my muttering for a second. Damn. He's right. I hate it when that happens!  
  
This is what you get when you work for the government. Even if it's not the real government. They're always cutting costs. SD-6 was clearly too cheap to buy front row tickets.   
  
I roll my eyes.  
  
I stand up.   
  
I strut down to the front row. And by strut, I mean strut. A supermodel doesn't strut as well as I do.  
  
I could hear Vaughn and Weiss's gasps of astonishment. _Amateurs._ They've clearly never seen a real strut.  
  
I continue strutting to where the Man With The Ugly Hat is sitting, and I lean forward. Remember, this is a thing that I'm wearing. A thing concealing very, very, very little.  
  
I sit down on his lap, trying not to cringe as I do so. It's not a very nice lap.  
  
I smile.  
  
I reach inside his pocket.  
  
I take out a flower. That's all that's there.  
  
A single daisy. I stare at it in amazement. I was expecting a bomb. Or weapons of some kind. Or something more substantial than a daisy. I need chocolate. And icecream. This is not turning out to be a good day, or a productive one. I frown. In order to obtain chocolate, one needs to be outside the stadium. Therefore, I must get out of the stadium.  
  
I stand up. And I strut out, pulling Weiss and Vaughn along as I get the heck out of there, leaving a lot of very confused men staring at me from behind.  
  
"A flower. I wasted my Saturday stealing a _daisy_." I thrust the flower in their faces once we're out of the stadium, and they recoil slightly.  
  
"Well, Syd, um, maybe it's a Rambaldi flower?"  
  
"Eric. It's crumpled. It's dying. You think Rambaldi would do shoddy work like this?"   
  
I roll my eyes again. These guys are total amateurs, I tell you.  
  
"Syd?"  
  
"What is it, Vaughn?"  
  
"Would you…um, like some flowers?"  
  
I watch with amazement as he produces a bouquet of roses from thin air.   
  
Well. Maybe today hasn't been a complete waste of time after all.   
  
I accept the flowers graciously, and say in my most posh British accent, "Thankyou for a very enjoyable afternoon, gentlemen. Do enjoy the game, won't you?"  
  
And with that, I'm out of there, leaving behind two very confused CIA agents and a man with a really, really, really ugly hat.   
  
* * *  
  
As I'm walking out of the stadium, I hear a voice.  
  
And it's someone I don't particularly want to hear from.  
  
"Sister dear! How is your mission going?"  
  
I grit my teeth, turn, and smile charmingly at my younger brother.  
  
"Hello, Sark. Made anyone cry today?"  
  
"Sadly, no. But it's only 4pm."  
  
"What exactly was this mission about, anyway? I missed most of the briefing thanks to you making stupid faces at me."  
  
"Hey! You started it!"  
  
"Did not!"  
  
"Did too!"  
  
"Did NOT!"  
  
"Did TOO!"  
  
I pout. I pout really, really well. As a matter of fact, I doubt that there's anyone who pouts quite as well as I do.  
  
"I'm telling Mummy on you!" he cries.  
  
I cross my arms, and stick my tongue out.   
  
He just pouts back. He's a very good pouter as well. I've taught him well. Maybe a little bit too well.  
  
Then I realise that Vaughn's probably still around here somewhere, and that I still have the whole cool-girl-I-don't-need-you vibe going with him, and that pouting at the obnoxious little brother probably doesn't scream sophisticated to him.   
  
"Whatever," I say, suddenly a little bit deflated.  
  
I really have a ridiculous life. It's a Saturday afternoon on the hottest day in LA history for an incredible number of years. And I'm outside a baseball stadium, holding a bunch of roses and a dying daisy for God knows what reason, sticking out my tongue at my younger brother, while trying to be cool to impress the cute guy I like who may or may not be watching this conversation.   
  
Good grief. Forget ridiculous. Sad is more like it.  
  
Oh well. Time to play SuperSpy.   
  
I raise my head. And I walk out of that place not really caring exactly how I look, or what on earth I'm wearing, or who's watching, but just being the best damn spy there is. And it's one of those moments that in the soundtrack to my life I know is accompanied by kickass music.  
  
So I strut.  
  
And by God, if I am not the best spy around, I am certainly the best looking one.   
  
Even if I don't know why I was on this mission in the first place.  
  
Or exactly what the daisy in my hand has to do with anything.  
  
But hey. That can all be forgiven. Or just forgotten. Preferably forgotten.  
  
The End!  
  
MOVIE QUOTE/S -   
1. ""I just know, before this is over, I'm gonna need a whole lot of serious therapy. Look at my eye twitchin'" - Donkey, _Shrek_  
2. "Mission...quest...thing" - Merry or Pippin, _The__ Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring_  
3. "Made anyone cry today?" "Sadly, no. But it's only 4pm." - Mr. Stratford and Kat, _10 Things I Hate About You_  
  
  
And yes, I know it was bizarre, and completely implausible, and requires total suspension of disbelief. But did you like it anyway? Did you laugh? This is an incredible change of pace from anything I've ever written before, so please let me know if you liked it!  
  
And please, please, please, please, please read and review. Especially the review part. Please!  
J  
Em**


End file.
